


That simple

by Lerry_Hazel



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Connor is a Damsel in Distress, Fluff, M/M, Mpreg, No murder, Oliver is his Knight in Shining Armour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-15
Updated: 2015-03-15
Packaged: 2018-03-17 23:33:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3547841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lerry_Hazel/pseuds/Lerry_Hazel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No murder - but Connor still has a pretty good reason to show up on Oliver's doorstep freaked out of his mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue&Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> I guess one too many 'love me and want to have my kids' jokes crossed some wires inside my brain.  
> So yes, beware of Mpreg (in case you don't like it). Although it is not graphic (in case you do).  
> And let's make it a "Male pregnancy is rare, but not unheard of" AU, and forego pseudo-scientific attempts to rationalize the biologically impossible.  
> Also, if you are particularly fond of any other characters besides Connor and Oliver, read at your own risk.

 

**PROLOGUE**

This is ridiculous. He hasn’t been dumped. He can’t be dumped if they haven’t been in relationship in the first place. It’s just humiliating: standing in the hall in the middle of the night in his underwear. It’s just irritating: who does the stupid nerd think he is, with his ridiculous glasses and all that blushing and stammering? Does he really think he can do better than Connor Walsh?

Ok, the blushing is cute. And the glasses are kinda adorable. And Oliver doesn’t actually stammer, but – so not the point here!

It barely takes a month before Connor’s resolve to never even think of Oliver breaks. So there he is once again, standing in front of number 303 well past sociably acceptable visiting hours, still half-drunk and with a pompous bunch of flowers he doesn’t know how to hold properly nesting awkwardly in the crook of his elbow. And the guy who opens the door looks like a Greek statue on steroids, and his eyes go all doey when he speaks Oliver’s name, his voice oozing protectiveness when he warns Connor from ever coming back, and, yep, looks like Oliver ended up with someone better than Connor Walsh without even trying.

Connor suddenly feels like throwing up. And then he does.

The next day the hangover sets in and doesn’t seem to go away. He is constantly sore and nauseated and plagued by random headaches, he barely manages to drag himself out of bed and spends his days dreaming of the moment when he will be able to pass out again. He has long since relinquished his leading position in the race for the trophy, but now he seems to be falling behind even Asher, yet he can’t bring himself to care. He does, however, check the Facebook religiously every time he has to go online, expecting to see “Oliver Hampton now in relationship with” the guy who can be bothered to cook and won’t feed him cold takeout for the rest of their lives. Every time he finds Oliver still “single” he is so pathetically grateful he hates himself a little more.

And then the shit hits the fan with Lila Stangard’s body, and Annalise both suspecting her husband and refusing to consider he might have actually done it at the same time; and suddenly they are crashing the football team party grilling drunk jocks for information; and he pretends to hug Michaela, whispering for her to not flash her engagement ring so much unless she wants to scare potential witnessed away; and a bleach-haired HB who would vehemently deny it in the morning is not-so-subtly grabbing his own ass; and it is wrong, and it isn’t where he wants to be at all, and the chaotic flickering of the fire is making him dizzy, and the smoke is clogging his senses. He doesn’t even see who was kind enough to catch him before his world goes black.

**CHAPTER I**

After throwing Connor “We Are Not Exclusive” Walsh out of his apartment half-naked in the middle of the night, Oliver didn’t expect to see him again. And after he came out of the shower a few weeks later and Mark, waving a spatula like a sword, proudly told him about chasing away the competition, Oliver knew Connor wouldn’t come back. So he swallowed a misplaced pang of regret, smiled and rewarded his new lover with a quick peck on the lips.

When Mark walked out of his life with an underwear model hanging from his arm, he told Oliver they wouldn’t have worked out anyway, not while Connor was so obviously still an issue. Oliver pointed out Mark was the one all too eager to get together with his ex, while Oliver himself had never said he wanted Connor back.

That was what he stubbornly repeated night after night, throwing an extra blanket over his cold, not lonely, bed. That was what he wanted to believe.

However, when he was woken at the crack of dawn by frantic pounding on his front door, and Connor was standing there, all pale and sweating, whimpering “I screwed up” over and over again, it was not about what Oliver wanted: it was about what Connor needed. So Oliver sat on the floor and stroked his ex-not-boyfriend’s back, willing him to calm down; and then he dragged Connor inside, striped him of his clothes stinking of smoke and disinfectant, threw them in the washing machine, and made Connor take a hot shower, and tucked him in bed – because that was something any decent human being would do. And if afterwards he slipped into the same bed himself, that was only because he refused to sleep on the coach in his own home: the fact that he slept better than he had in weeks was purely circumstantial.

*******

He woke up well past noon to unmistakable sounds of retching coming from his bathroom, followed by a still slightly green but collected Connor wandering back into the bedroom with a bunch of his now fresh clothes in his arms.

‘You want to tell me what’s going on?’

‘I was drunk,’ Connor answered in his best “yes-I’m-an-asshole-why-are-you-surprised” voice.

‘No, you weren’t. We slept in the same bed, remember? I would know if – ‘

Connor’s mobile chose that moment to start ringing, and he hurried to answer, looking relieved in spite of himself:

‘Yes. No, I haven’t been home yet. They had to run some tests. No, don’t – I’m out of the hospital already. Yes, I’m fine. I’ll be there.’

All those fleeting thoughts Oliver had been having since last night suddenly snapped into focus.

‘What hospital?’ he asked gravely.

‘It doesn’t matter’, the law student sighed, continuing to pull on his socks robotically.

‘Connor!’

‘For fuck’s sake, Oliver, if I had some kind of STD do you really think I wouldn’t have told you?’

‘I don’t know what to think anymore!’ Oliver hissed, rage and dread mingling dangerously within his mind, ‘I thought we were together while you were still fucking everything with two legs and a dick! I thought I deserved an explanation after dealing with your major freak-out! But when you don’t want you friends to know you are with me and don’t want me to know you’ve been to hospital, I think it’s pretty self-explanatory, and – ’

‘It was a pregnancy test, OK!’ Connor snapped. ‘I have to go, we have a case.’

‘What? You can’t go to work! You just told me you are pregnant! We – have to talk about it, and – ‘

‘No, we don’t. I’ll deal with it.’ And Connor walked away, leaving a dumbfounded not-boyfriend behind.

*******

In the evening he came back looking every bit his usual super-charming self in dire need of some hacking done “for the greater good”. Of course, work took precedence over them, especially as there was no “them” to begin with.

‘Now can we talk about the bomb you oh-so-casually dropped today?’ Oliver asked, extracting a flash drive from his laptop and resolutely ignoring the familiar warmth radiating from Connor’s body.

‘There is nothing to talk about.’

‘Nothing?’

‘The guy I saw here once, with all those muscles – ‘

‘If we’re not going to talk about your pregnancy we sure as hell aren’t going to talk about my dating habits.’

‘So you are dating?’

‘None of your business.’

‘So you are not dating,’ Connor concludes gleefully, suddenly too close for comfort, and Oliver is struck by an overwhelming sense of déjà vu:

‘No. Oh. hell, no, you’re not doing this to me. I let you get away with your “an innocent person might go to jail” kind of crap, because, frankly, I don’t want you to go find someone else to turn into your personal code-breaker slash sex-toy, but I draw the line here: I’m not going to be your backup plan to fall upon when you’re feeling down only to strut off to greener pastures afterwards!’

‘It’s not like this, Oliver, I really like you – ’

‘And I more than like you! But I can’t go on living off your metaphorical scraps hoping that if I’m where you need me often enough, one day you might learn to include me in the equation. We aren’t going to pretend least night never happened and go back to having meaningless sex. From now on you’ll have to either be with me or do without!’

‘It’s not that simple.’

‘Well, it should be. It’s late and you look done in. You may stay. But you’re sleeping on the coach.’

Oliver brought the extra blanket out and closed the bedroom door behind him. When his alarm went off in the morning, Connor was gone.


	2. Chapter Two

**CHAPTER II**

It was crazy. Pax was dead, and that other guy hadn’t even introduced himself properly. Oliver was sure to hate him now and, anyway, he didn’t know if Oliver wanted kids. The ultrasound picture was little more than some greyish blur, he wasn’t even sure where he was supposed to look. He was a first-year student. He worked for forty hours a week for the most demanding lawyer in town, helping people get away with murder. There was no way he would be a good father, and yet –

‘I’m sorry, I don’t think I can go through with it.’

The elderly doctor shrugged and imperturbably started putting his instruments away:

‘Well, Mr. Walsh, you have a little over a week to decide, and by that time you’d better be sure. Because there will be no way back.’

Now the week was almost up, and he was no closer to making a decision, losing sleep night after night trapped in a vicious circle. Logically he knew that putting his entire future on hold to have what might very well be a strange man’s child was pure madness. But then his treacherous insecurities would raise their ugly heads, asking him mockingly what if the child was his last and only chance to be loved. Meanwhile, some stupid part of him that was probably his heart stubbornly insisted that the child must be Oliver’s, and starting a family with Oliver was good and right.

Apparently, it really was that simple.

*******

‘You want to – what?’ Oliver asked incredulously.

‘Take you out for dinner. I made a reservation.’

‘You made a – what? No! I told you, I’m not going to drop everything I’m doing to cater to your every whim. I don’t even want to go out today,’ he used the spatula Connor was starting to hate to point at the frying pan on the stove, ‘and anyway, you don’t get the final say! If you make plans with both of us in mind, you have to ask for my input!’

Connor was starting to suspect they weren’t talking about a night out anymore, or maybe they were, but soon it didn’t matter, because Oliver decided to make an even bigger show of being busy and went on to furiously stirring whatever he had in that frying pan; a cloud of strong spicy smell spread around the kitchen and Connor had to make a mad dash to the bathroom.  

  *******

‘I put the sauce away.’

‘Good.’

‘Feeling better?’

‘For the moment.’

‘Mouthwash’s on the lowest shelf.’

‘I know.’

‘Yo – er, the spare toothbrush is still there too.’

‘I see.’

 

*******

‘I thought you were going to get rid of it.’

‘I was. But I couldn’t.’

Oliver looked like he wanted to kiss him senseless but knew there was the other shoe to drop. Of course he did: he was Oliver.

‘I’m not sure it’s yours, you know. It was around that time.’

‘And yet, you came to me.’

‘I hope it’s yours. Don’t want to do it alone.’

‘We are not hooking up just because I might be your child’s father. And we certainly are not hooking up so that your child has a father.’

‘I didn’t mean it like that. I don’t need someone to sue for child support, or take the kid off my hands once he’s born. I know I want it. But it’s a lifetime obligation. It’s a tiny human being that’ll depend on me for everything. It shouldn’t be about me, but about him – or her. I need to know I’m doing the right thing, and there is no one I trust more then you to tell me the truth. Please, don’t send me away,’ Connor concluded shakily as all the fight suddenly drained out of him. He nearly wept with relief when Oliver reached out to kiss him tenderly on the forehead. Or maybe he did weep, as Oliver’s fond expression suddenly morphed into that of an exasperated mother-hen:

‘OK, I think we’ve had enough heavy emotional stuff for today. You need food that doesn’t make you sick, and rest. We’ll talk in the morning.’

“Can I stay with you?’ Connor whispered, trying and failing not to sniff.

Deliciously familiar warm arms squeezed his shoulders reassuringly:

‘As long as you need, you idiot. We are not back together – yet – probably, but it doesn’t mean I won’t help.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Calling a child "it" all the time is weird. But since its (damn!) sex doesn't hold any true significance for the plot, I'm trying to leave it to your imagination - for now :-).


	3. Chapter Three

**CHAPTER III**

As far as Connor Walsh was concerned, whoever claimed to enjoy their way to parenthood was a filthy liar. His, at least, felt like an endless journey through hell.

Apparently, even after discovering the symptoms plaguing him were caused by pregnancy, not heartache, subconsciously he still clung to the idea that his world would right itself once he had convinced Oliver to take him back. He couldn’t have been more wrong.

Connor’s unexpected attachment for his unborn child had lit a spark in his soul, and Oliver’s acceptance had stroked it into a little flame, but now this tiny piece of warmth needed protection from the harsh winds of outside world, and Connor felt like he was battling them all on his own. He didn’t trust Annalise not to make him choose between his baby his career, he didn’t trust his co-workers not to use his “weakness” against him, he didn’t trust his parents not to come and make him feel incapable and unworthy of raising a child. He didn’t even trust his sister not to do or say something that might upset the questionable equilibrium of his life “for his own good”. He trusted Oliver not to back off on his promise to help, but he didn’t want to waste this particular trump card unless he truly needed it. So for now he gritted his teeth, put on a smile and went through his days presenting the world with carefully constructed façade of the Connor Walsh everyone was used to seeing. Then he went back to his lonely flat unless Oliver specifically invited him over. Meanwhile, his physical discomfort didn’t seem to abide as his pregnancy progressed, but was now accompanied by mood swings – mostly between irritation and profound misery – and food cravings both ignoring and yielding to which resulted in cutting down his sleep time. In other words, it was meant to blow right in his face sooner rather than later.  

It had taken him awhile to start showing, but when he did the bump went from “barely there” to “no hiding it” virtually overnight, so all the clothes that had looked only a little awkward a few days earlier suddenly didn’t fit at all. He had to exchange his customary jacket for a sweater, and Asher blurted out something about holding off stress eating, “’cause you’re starting to look like one of _those_ guys”; which, frankly, wasn’t even such a big deal, because, a) this was Asher, and b) he literally didn’t know what he was talking about. Yet somehow Connor ended up buried under Oliver’s covers, sobbing into Oliver’s T-shirt and bubbling incoherently how this couldn’t go on forever, how he didn’t know what was real and how he need to know where he stood. In the morning, for the first time in too many weeks, he woke up not perched on the very edge of “his” side of bed, but securely in Oliver’s arms, and, once the latter had extracted himself in order to get ready for work, rolled over and went back to sleep clutching Oliver’s pillow to his chest. By half past five he slipped out of bed finally feeling rested, and managed to put together a passable dinner by the time Oliver came back.

Before he knew it he was assigned wardrobe space, bookshelf space, washing-up duty and the “+1” role at an office function.


	4. Chapter Four&Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...Oh, and I guess I should have mentioned it earlier, but I don't own HTGAWM.

 

**CHAPTER IV**

The first thing Connor couldn’t have found out from reading the sign on the front of the building was that the company Oliver worked for was huge. The second thing Connor could have learned by now had the possibility occurred to him was that Oliver apparently wasn’t a random IT guy: he was the IT guy whose name the big bosses in three-thousand-dollar suits had bothered to remember and whose hand they deigned to shake. The third thing that shouldn’t really surprise Connor now that he knew “Mister Hampton” better was that his smile, the one he bestowed upon people who wandered by to congratulate him – either babbling about some great project or nodding pointedly towards Connor’s stomach – well, the smile wasn’t all that shy: it was small and private, like he appreciated the warm sentiments, but didn’t truly need anyone to tell him he had done well.

Denying Oliver, as he fell into bed that night, happy and drunk, and proceeded to lift the unspoken limitations he had put on physical affection, was the hardest thing Connor had ever done.

*******

Connor half-expected Oliver not to remember – or pretend not to remember – the confessions they had exchanged before the apparent star of the IT department finally passed out. But in the morning Oliver greeted him with a full-blown kiss on the lips and Connor suddenly realized he absolutely couldn’t fuck up again, because he had absolutely no idea how he would be able to survive without whatever it was going on between them.

 

That’s why he was standing just outside the Central Archive frantically taking deep breathes in order to control a very real urge to vomit: the guy hadn’t been that repulsive and all he had done was put his hand on Connor’s forearm, promising to “see what can be bone”, but Connor’s stomach roiled unpleasantly at the mere thought of anyone but Oliver touching him. Besides, the guy had implied that going to a local archive was just a regulation requirement but not truly necessary, so there must be at least some digitalized and remotely-accessible data, and he could ask Oliver to retrieve it for him. Except the very idea of bringing forward this particular aspect of their relationship filled him with profound sense of dread. Still, he needed something so that not to further jeopardize his position in Annalise’s firm, which was the only thing left in his life that didn’t orbit around Oliver and the baby, and he needed this, needed for the sake of his sanity to be able to pretend there was something to go back to in case this whole relationship thing went horribly wrong. So at that time it seemed perfectly reasonable to go hunting for the original paper copy of their witness's file – in the sheriff’s office in Evansville, Minnesota.

He never made it to Evansville. Instead he came round hours later in what turned out to be Regions Hospital in Saint Paul, the familiarly foreign weight still wrapped securely around his waist, and for a moment he believed everything would be all right. Then he took in all the machinery he was attached to, and a very young nurse informed him shakily that “the doctor would be with him shortly” and his family “had been informed”, and it became apparent that things were far from OK.

Connor had no idea where his cell had gone, along with the rest of his things, but thankfully there was a landline within grabbing distance, so he hastily dialed his parents’ number before anyone could tell him he was not supposed to. The first thing his mother said as she answered the phone was “What the hell are you doing in Minnesota?”, and the explanation he offered was hopefully vague enough for her to conclude, as usual, that it was all his own fault and there was no need to get the family name dragged into it. Annalise was next on his list, and the first thing she said was “Have you found anything?” closely followed by “Well, make sure you get better in time for the trial”. And when he thought he had no more excuses to delay the inevitable, a scrub-clad and strict-looking woman strode in and started lecturing him about how monumentally idiotic it had been to get on a plane in his condition, and how lucky he had been the flight attendants hadn’t just dismissed him as a nervous flyer overindulging in “liquid courage”. But all Connor could hear was “high risk of premature labor” and “enforced bed rest”, and suddenly there was not enough air in the room, because his baby could have died, probably still could, despite all the “managed to stabilize” and “out of immediate danger”; and Connor himself was stuck half way across the country from his school and his work, away from Oliver, all but chained to bed for the next nine weeks, hospital bills eating away the sum he’d put aside to get him through the time before his trust fund was to be released to him. He would have to bring his parents in, who would find a way to pretend nothing significant was happening, and that would involve sending Connor back to school, and his child, his poor baby –

The doctor swore and shouted for a nurse, who hastily injects something into the IV, and Connor’s world once again went black.

He woke up to the distinctive clack-clack-clack of laptop keys, erratic and irregular, as if whoever was pushing them kept forcing his attention back on the task even though it was actually the last thing on his mind:

‘Oliver,’ Connor breathed out, half awestruck and half disbelieving.

  *******

Oliver said “Thanks god you’re all right” and “Don’t you scare me like this ever again” and “Do you need anything?” And then, calmly and efficiently, like putting together a puzzle – or maybe stings of code – he started to tick off things that needed to be done, while Connor was still struggling to wrap his brain around the sheer magnitude of all those sudden and unplanned changes in his – their – lives.

For the first few days Oliver barely left his side and, Connor could swear, rarely let go of his hand, yet somehow he managed to get himself transferred to the local branch of his company, to rent an apartment and to put forward applications for a bunch of online courses Connor hadn’t even known Middleton offered. And for the next couple of weeks Oliver proceeded to juggle his new job, shopping for baby staff and stopping by the hospital so expertly, that by the time the Fourth of July rolled in and he had to leave for the whole long weekend to pick up loose ends back in Philadelphia, Connor was surprised to realize there was very little left for him to freak out about.

 

**EPILOGUE**

An hour into labor Connor tells himself that if in the end he gets to finally meet his baby and leave the loathsome hospital ward behind, the torture is probably worth it. Ten hours later he decides that if they ever want another child, they will have to adopt. After over twenty, when the monitors start to whine insistently and caesarian is brought up, he is delirious with pain and exhaustion and just ready for it to be over, even if it means his worst fear is about to come true.

  *******

The boy sports a patch of fluffy black hair and sort of darkish eyes, but that doesn’t mean anything: both could come from Connor himself. The reverent expression on Oliver’s face, however, means the world:

‘He is perfect’.

Connor nods and swallows thickly:

‘We should probably ask for some test to see if he’s yours’.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Oliver answers, leaning in to kiss Connor’s temple tenderly, and his smile is once again small and private, but the look of wonder and adoration in his eyes doesn’t abide. ‘He is ours’.

**=fin=**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly, I freely admit that as far as Education and Health Care in the USA are concerned, everything I know mostly comes from TV shows. I could have probably googled it more thoroughly, but I didn't want reality to sabotage my writing plans :-). In other words, yes, I know Mpreg is not the only improbable aspect of this story.  
> And, in case you were wondering, it's Minnesota because my idea of "the two of us against the world" includes cold winters. Blame "New in Town" and "Big Time Rush" ;-).

**Author's Note:**

> Just so you know, somewhere around e3 I realized this show wasn't really my cup of tea, but out of curiosity I fast-forwarded my way through Coliver scenes. So I have no idea whether I really consider Annalise particularly dislikable and whether Asher is actually a 'doucheface' outside certain fanfics. I'm just overly fond of 'the-two-of-us-against-the-world' scenarios.  
> I didn't explicitly re-write the 'testing-for-HIV' arc, but let's assume they are both fine.  
> Finally, because I know people get offended over strangest things, let me clarify once again that the sole purpose of this fic is to create a happy little world for my two favorite characters. I don't have anything to say against (or pro-, for the matter) abortions, gender roles, social stereotypes, criminal lawyers etc. :-).


End file.
